John Grey

The night sky
stirs in the window.
Mountains hang
like a dark mutation

from the last fretted
sliver of sunlight.
Trees surrender
their singularity
to shadow
until the forest
is gray and shapeless.
The lake is longer, deeper,
for disappearing in the darkness.
Wave after wave
slaps buried drums
under its shores.
All is immutable, impregnable
but for your kiss
gifted to my neck’s
quiet ridge
and the moon’s bright landing party
somewhere behind my eyes.